


Cold Like the Breeze

by ionik



Series: Snowbaz Winter 2019 [1]
Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, POV Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Pining, Pining Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Watford Fifth Year, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-01
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:01:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21637795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ionik/pseuds/ionik
Summary: It's December at Watford, and December brings snow, and Snow brings feelings. Purely antagonistic feelings, of course.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch & Simon Snow
Series: Snowbaz Winter 2019 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1559734
Comments: 2
Kudos: 20





	Cold Like the Breeze

**Author's Note:**

> trying to do one of these for every day of december :)
> 
> enjoy !

**Baz**

It’s the first of December and it’s snowing. I’m in my room at the top of the turret in Mummer’s House, finishing up the assignment due tomorrow in Magical Words. It’s on the weather’s influence on the strength of spells that refer to natural phenomenons. Miss Possibelf likes the snow, so I’m writing on  _ You’re getting colder _ .

I’m surprised Snow isn’t in the room with me to keep an eye on me. He has been following me around for months now. Like a lost but aggressive chihuahua, nipping at my ankles. I wouldn’t complain, but it’s annoying when I can’t even drink without cornering myself to keep a lookout. I have a nervous tick now, a compulsion to look over my shoulder whenever I don’t have my back against a wall. I hate nervous ticks.

As I’m thinking about Snow, I hear hasty stomps up the stairs leading to our floor. Typical. I can usually pick up how he walks compared to others’ gaits, but when he stomps, he’s just making it easy for me. He’s a balloon under high pressure with a single tiny hole. Whatever’s welling up in him escapes at high velocity and can be weaponised if aimed in the right direction. Towards a monster, like a chimera. Or towards me. Same difference.

He enters the room flushed, a flurry of cold wind and smoky magic. It makes my ears ring and my tongue buzz. It’s an infuriating combination. Adding to the situation, it turns out I’m wrong. Snow is not pissed off. He’s - smiling. Grinning, even. He’s all wrapped up in layers of warm clothing. A jumper, a long woolen coat, heavy winter boots that remind me of the ones Fiona likes to wear, although Snow’s are practical instead of aesthetic. Fiona swears that her boots are warm, but I once busted her wearing Uggs when she dragged herself out the door the day after New Year’s, when she was as hungover as I’ve ever seen her and it was ‘colder than a witch’s tits’. Even at 8, I had enough sense to not comment on that metaphor.

“Look what the polecat dragged in. Did you try to cast  _ It’s up to your knees _ ?” His outerwear is not dirty, just covered in glittering water droplets that have melted from big crystalline snowflakes.

“Fuck off Baz,” he says, but a small smile is still playing on his lips. He must be in an especially good mood today. I have to try harder, I tell myself. Then I get distracted.

What I first thought was sweat on Snow’s neck turns out to be water. Frozen water, snow, fittingly enough, melts to drip down a lock of hair that sticks to his skin. He’s wearing a knitted hat, an orange and lime green lopsided eyesore Bunce made him in second year. It’s too big for his head even after all these years, right now it slips down his forehead only to be adjusted by a gloved hand. The measure doesn’t work, Snow’s looking down into the drawer of his bedside table, so the knitted fabric droops down into his eyes once more.

He looks up once more when his bare hand grabs the object he’s looking for. The ratty old school-issued scarf he’s kept since first year. It reeks of magic and dust mites. He drapes the grey and purple monstrosity around his neck. That’s when I notice I’ve been staring at the mole the scarf now, unfortunately, covers up. He looks radiant today, his skin glows. I can’t tell if the glow is caused by the melted snow glittering off the exposed softness of his cheek, or by the magic radiance he emits when he’s happy, or by the rose-tinted filter I’ve come to realise I view him through.

“Wait until I come back to go to the catacombs, yeah? It would be no fun to ruin our little tradition,” he announces to me, in a sort of teasing (?) manner. What an asshole. I sneer at him and look back at my laptop, and Snow storms back out of the room as intensely and hastily as he entered.

I don’t listen to him. I get up with every intention to not look at him, but go straight down to drink, for once with the knowledge that I won’t have Snow at my heels. And if I sneak a peek at him and Bunce making snow angels and Wellbelove shaking her head at them, if I linger by the basement window in the upper catacombs for a little longer than I probably should, that’s only for me and the dead to know.

**Author's Note:**

> i almost included a pine tree
> 
> title from Natural by The driver Era
> 
> thank you for reading !


End file.
